


LEN

by kashinoha



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Barry is so done, Cisco needs better ways to occupy his time, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 11:53:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5706706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashinoha/pseuds/kashinoha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There’s sort of a catch,” Cisco says. “The interface is…” he clears his throat, “faulty.”</p><p>“Faulty? How can a GPS interface be faulty?” asks Barry, frowning.</p><p>Cisco scratches his head, uncomfortable. “Well it, uh, sort of developed a personality.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	LEN

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissSugarPlum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissSugarPlum/gifts).



> Happy Birthday!! Yes I know this is two months early, but I'm going to be super busy very soon and I thought I'd get it to you ahead of schedule.
> 
> I had such a great time writing this, and if this doesn’t make you keyboard smash I haven’t done my job. It’s not exactly coldflash, but I hope you like it!

 

**LEN  
**

All characters © DC Comics

 

 

In a distant world—not Earth-2 or -3 or -4, but one of those out there, Barry Allen wipes sweat from his forehead as he pulls into the CCPD’s main lot.

Twenty-two minutes late and counting.

Vaguely, he wonders if Joe had plans for dinner tonight because it looks like barbecued forensic scientist is on the grill. Extra crispy. In an effort to get inside, Barry slams his car door so fast the ends of his jacket get caught and he has to open the car again to get them out. He rushes up the steps, flings the precinct doors open with such force that the intern at the front desk shrieks and spills her coffee all over the comm phone.

Singh is watching it all, teeth grinding visibly against his jaw. Barry groans.

He tries to explain to his boss that yes, he understands the importance of punctuality, no, his alarm clock is perfectly fine; he just got lost because there was a construction detour on Waters Street, but Singh only pinches the bridge of his nose and grits out, “Don’t let it happen again, Allen.”

Barry is the best forensic scientist the force has had in twelve years. It’s not like they are going to fire him. But then again, Barry thinks, glancing at the clock on the wall (the second hand seems to be winking at him, somehow), he can’t keep pushing his luck like this. He’s twenty-five and 150 pounds soaking wet, as awkward as a deer on a patch of ice, and is so terrible at keeping time it might as well be a disease.

“Heard you were late again, man,” Cisco says to him at lunch, mouth full of sandwich. Today he’s wearing a tee that says _I may be NErDy but only periodically_ and there are fading goggle marks around his eyes. “Tough break. What was it this time?”

Barry pokes at his own soggy sub. It's practically weeping Balsamic vinegar onto the tin foil. “I got lost.”

This makes Cisco snort. “Three months here and you still can’t find this place?” he says, not unkindly. He jerks a thumb towards the window. “Obviously the giant eagle statue outside isn’t big enough. Maybe we can get some bubble gum and stick a banner on it that says ‘CCPD, HERE.’ ”

“There was a detour,” says Barry, testy.

Cisco takes a bite of his sandwich and looks Barry over, chewing thoughtfully. Barry gives his sub another rueful poke. All in all he is grateful for another like-minded person to talk to around here, even if most of his and Cisco’s conversations involve doughnut jokes and making fun of Detective Polisi’s handlebar mustache. Cisco has an IQ of 168, a Ph.D. in mechanical engineering, and prefers a more hands-on approach to helping people. When he joined the force no one knew quite what to do with him, so they just dumped him in the weapons department where he sat bored out of his mind, day after day.

 _Inspector Gadget he ain’t,_ Barry thinks, looking at Cisco’s graphic T-shirt. Cisco is still somewhere else and Barry really doesn’t feel like eating his sandwich, so he probes, “Got anything in that head of yours?”

Finally, Cisco comes back to reality and thumps Barry on the shoulder. “You, my friend, are in luck—I think I have something that just might help your predicament,” he says, grinning.

 

 

 

“It’s a GPS,” Barry says, three days later, staring at the most unflattering device he has ever laid eyes on. Cisco’s cradling it like a newborn baby, which is both endearing and slightly disturbing. “This is your great idea?”

“Hey now,” Cisco pouts, “this isn’t just _any_ GPS.”

Barry folds his arms and raises an eyebrow. “Do continue.”

They are in Barry’s lab and he is supposed to have submitted his toxicology report an hour ago. He blames the roadwork. Whatever shit they are doing over on Waters Street, they are _still_ doing it. This time, in an effort to not make the same mistake again, Barry had tried a different detour…and ended up on the other side of town. Needless to say his entire day has been off-schedule since.

Cisco sets the little box down on Barry’s desk and gestures dramatically. “Barry Allen, meet LEN, the Lifelike En-route Navigator. This, my friend, is a GPS that I designed.”

“You know I could have just gone out and bought a regular GPS if I’d wanted to.”

“But then you'd be missing out on this one,” Cisco replies cheerfully. “LEN has extended satellite capabilities, including constant Wi-Fi, a route simulator based on my own personal algorithm, maintenance reminders, _plus_ temporary access to your car’s controls in the case of an emergency. And that’s just for starters.”

Barry peers at the GPS and whistles. It may be ugly, but damn. “Cisco, shouldn’t you be selling this sort of thing?" he asks. "I mean, with this kind of technology you could get anything you wanted. A lifetime supply of shirts from Redbubble. You could be a _billionaire.”_

“Yeah, about that. There’s sort of a catch,” Cisco says, smile shrinking by several molars. “The interface is…” he clears his throat, “faulty.”

“Faulty? How can a GPS interface with flawless Wi-Fi be faulty?” asks Barry, frowning.

Cisco scratches his head, uncomfortable. “Well it, uh, sort of developed a personality.”

What Cisco says takes a minute to set in. Barry blinks. “Oh. You—you mean it’s sentient.”

Cisco shrugs, looking sheepish. “It was an accident?”

“So you _accidentally_ invent a GPS with AI,” says Barry, voice flat.

“If it’s any consolation you can have it, free of charge,” says Cisco.

Barry’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

“First, know that my intentions were good, Barry. And don’t get me wrong, I love LEN and all,” Cisco says, waving his hands, “but I…sorta kinda haven’t figured out a way to shut him off. He’ll still get you where you need to go in guaranteed record time, but he’ll be annoying as hell about it.”

Barry mulls it over in his head. Use Cisco’s wacky interface, which will probably make his life more difficult than it already is, or risk getting the sack due to perpetual tardiness? He really doesn’t want to lose his job.

“Can you fix the personality template, or whatever it is?” Barry asks Cisco.

“Hey man, I’m not Tony Stark,” exclaims Cisco. Barry gives him a look. “Buutt give me a little time, and I might be able to tweak him.” He squeezes his eyes shut. _“It._ Tweak _it.”_

“Then I’ll take it,” Barry grins. “Thanks, Cisco.”

“You might not be thanking me in a couple days, buddy,” warns Cisco, promptly dropping the gadget into Barry’s arms with a hint of relief.

 

 

 

The next morning is a slow one for Barry. Last night he dreamt that all the Subway joints on earth were run by giant robots (thanks a lot, Cisco) and oversleeps just enough that he does not have time to make his coffee. He trudges out to his Honda thirty minutes later with his keys in one hand, his briefcase in the other, and a granola bar between his teeth. Barry starts the car and, with a final thought that he is probably going to regret this, jams his new GPS onto the dashboard.

“Here goes nothing,” he says, and presses the power button.

“Please input name,” a voice tells him.

Barry’s granola bar goes down the wrong pipe. He coughs, pounding his chest because _shit._ He had been expecting one of those semi-British automated voices, not what sounded like an _actual person_ in his car. What the fuck. Cisco had not been kidding when he said lifelike.

“I’m sorry,” the voice declares, over Barry’s coughing, “can you repeat that?”

“Barry,” he wheezes. “Barry Allen.”

“Good morning, Barry Allen.” If Barry didn’t know any better he’d say the voice was making fun of him.

“Um, hi,” he says, as he backs out of his driveway. Might as well give this a shot. “So, uh, can you get me to the Central City Police Department in twenty minutes?”

The voice is a little too smug when it answers. “I can get you there in ten.”

“You’re shitting me,” says Barry.

“I am a high-functioning Global Positioning System with multi-faceted capabilities,” the voice replies, sounding miffed. “I don’t shit.”

“Yeah?” Barry says, making a right onto Chambers Lane. He realizes he is having an argument with a machine, which is insane and probably pointless, but ten minutes across town? “Prove it.”

“Call me Len, otherwise I may not feel like answering you.”

Barely five minutes in the car and Barry already wants to punch the interface. “Just get me there, Len,” he says, shaking his head. It’s rush hour, and there is _no way_ he’s making it to the precinct in ten minutes. At least legally.

“Sharp left onto Nelson,” says LEN.

Barry doesn’t know what it is, but in that moment, for whatever reason, he decides to take a leap of faith. It is a terrible idea, but Nelson does lead to the main road and maybe, just possibly, he’ll get to work on time.

“Whatever you say, _Len,”_ Barry sighs, and puts on his blinker.

 

 

 

Singh chokes on his coffee as Barry walks into the precinct a full ten minutes early.

 

 

 

“It’s cold in here,” LEN says.

They are driving home. The sun has already set below the horizon, giving way to a brisk November evening. A sickle moon is rising and fresh, cool air streams in through his partially open window, just how Barry likes it.

He arches an eyebrow. “What do you care?”

“The interior of a car should always be a comfortable seventy degrees Fahrenheit,” replies LEN. “The current temperature is at sixty-six.” It is a simple statement, but the GPS somehow manages to make it sound condescending.

“Well I’m comfortable,” Barry argues.

“Too bad, kid,” LEN says, and suddenly Barry feels warm air seeping in through his vents.

“Hey! You can’t just—“he exclaims—“how did you…?”

“No need to thank me.”

“Geez.” Barry rubs his face with one hand. If spontaneous control over his car isn’t enough, he still can’t get over how close LEN sounds to a regular guy. Deep voice, if a bit nasal, with one hell of an attitude behind it. “How did Cisco get you to sound so real, anyway?”

There is a pause. “I believe he went through the CCPD’s old arrest tapes before finding a suitable candidate.”

“Wait, so I’m listening to the voice of some random criminal?”

“Most likely,” replies LEN.

Cisco _really_ has too much time on his hands, Barry thinks. He huffs a sad little laugh. “Terrific.”

 

 

 

“Well I needed to extrapolate the voice patterns from _something,”_ Cisco tells him. “Found this guy from the nineties, a real wacko. Apparently he made himself a gun that shot liquid nitrogen. You gotta have serious skills for that, trust me.”

Barry takes another bite of his sub, not denying it. The sogginess is mild today, but there are still too many olives (Barry has a personal vendetta against pits of any kind). “Sounds like a smart guy,” he says, mouth full. “What happened to him?”

“Left the safety off with the gun still tucked into his pants,” Cisco sniggers.

Barry winces. Ouch. “So not so smart, then?” Cisco clucks his tongue and grins.

“How is LEN?”

Barry pokes an olive pit out from between his teeth and flicks it into the trash with a grimace. “Not as bad as liquid nitrogen, but still a pain in my ass.”

“It helps if you talk to him,” Cisco advises. “Otherwise he’ll just keep bothering you until you do.”

“What about shutting him up? It’s not like he has an off switch.”

Cisco raises a questioning finger. “Power button?” Like Barry hasn’t tried that.

“He figured out how to turn himself on every time I start the car.”

Cisco reaches for a slushie that looks larger than his entire head and takes a slurp, shrugging. “I’m working on it, man, but you know with this new case they want me on combustibles,” he says.

Ah, right. Mick Rory—though he prefers to call himself Heatwave—thief and biggest pyro Barry has ever seen. Definitely not the brightest flame in the fire, but bright enough to assemble his own portable flamethrower. Which means he's currently got the CCPD by their dangly bits and is not afraid to rub it in all their faces.

“No one’s caught this guy yet?” Barry asks, incredulous.

Cisco pulls a face. “He burns all the evidence.”

“Yeah,” says Barry, looking at his table of tubes and slides. “Not too much I can do with ash.”

 

 

 

“Really, Barry? Maroon 5?”

“You don’t get to comment on my music choices,” Barry says, pointing a finger at the GPS. Not that LEN can actually see it, but whatever.

“You could always _maroon_ me on the side of the road; I’m sure I’d have a much better time.”

“Know something? I have had it with your puns.”

“Sorry, my humor setting is faulty.”

“Your entire _interface_ is faulty.”

“Tell me you’d rather prefer some pre-recorded woman with a laughable English accent, and I’ll deactivate myself right here and now.”

Barry’s teeth clench. “I’d rather prefer some pre-recorded woman with a laughable English accent.”

“Oh, but she has no _personality.”_

“That’s exactly what I like about her.” Barry waits a couple beats before he declares, “I don’t hear you turning yourself off.”

“I lied. Just like you, Barry.”

“What? I didn’t—“

“You would rather prefer me, and you know it.”

“It’s a shame I can’t kill a GPS voice,” Barry growls, turning the radio up.

 

 

 

A week before Thanksgiving Joe busts a tire, and Barry gives him a ride to work.

Of course, Barry does everything humanly possible to avoid this, but to no avail. Iris works, Eddie takes public transport. The fact that he lives five minutes from Joe doesn’t help his case much either.

“This is great, Bar,” Joe exclaims, sliding into the car and rubbing his hands together against the cold. “I don’t think we’ve done this since you moved out.”

“Yeah,” Barry says, distracted. He glances at the GPS and clears his throat. “Look, Joe. There’s something you should know about the car before we—“

“Seat belt.”

Joe practically jumps in his seat. _“Ho_ ly—“He looks around wildly. “Where the hell did that come from?”

“Joe, meet Len, Len, Joe,” Barry says, dry. “He’s the GPS that Cisco made for me.”

“You sure that’s a GPS?” Joe’s eyebrows are still hovering somewhere around his hairline. “’Cause that sounds _real.”_

“Cisco went a little overboard.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mister West,” LEN says. “Is your seat belt on?” Joe gives the machine a look that says _do you even know who I am,_ and Barry almost laughs because he’s not the only one who has fallen into that trap. It is too easy to forget LEN isn’t actually a person. He might have been at one point, but all that’s left of that guy is the voice.

“You heard the man, Joe,” Barry jokes, “click it or ticket.”

“Huh. So that’s how you’ve been getting to work on time,” Joe muses, relaxing a bit and doing that half-smile half-frown thing Barry knows all too well. He gives the device on the dashboard an appreciative look before buckling up.

“Barry the slowpoke here who always drives five miles under the speed limit would never have made it without me,” LEN declares. Joe’s eyes widen, and he chuckles.

“This thing’s a piece of work, Bar.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” mutters Barry. He decides a subject change would be good for all of them. “Any leads on Heatwave?”

“Man, this Rory case is killing me,” Joe says, smile fading. He rubs his beard tiredly. “This week’s obsession is paintings, which he’s probably selling somewhere because he doesn’t strike me as the artistic type.” An image suddenly pops into Barry’s head of Heatwave admiring some abstract oils with a little beret on his head. He snorts.

Joe goes on, “He takes the ones he wants and burns the rest. Sets the whole damn gallery on fire, how about that? Monet’s probably crying in his grave somewhere.”

“Any idea where he’ll strike next?”

“If I may,” LEN says, pretty as you please, before Joe can even open his mouth and Jesus Christ what is he _doing,_ Barry thinks, “you can easily pinpoint this criminal of yours if you put his known marks into a simulator. Predict his next move.”

“Yeah, because I just happen to have one of those on me,” Joe says, glancing at Barry.

“You think Cisco could do something like that? If you gave him all of Rory’s known hits?” asks Barry.

Joe snaps his fingers, says, “Knew we kept that kid around for something. It’s worth a try, I guess.”

They drive in comfortable silence for a while, the only interruptions being LEN’s occasional “turn left, don’t hit any hobbling geriatrics,” or “dog pissing at your two o’ clock.” Overall the AI seems to be behaving himself today.

Then disaster strikes when Barry asks Joe how Iris is doing because he really should know better by now with LEN in the car.

“She’s good,” replies Joe. “But apparently her supervisor wants her to cover the Heatwave story. I’ve been trying to talk her out of it.”

“Why?” Barry frowns.

Joe gives him the evil eye. “You think I want my daughter anywhere near that maniac?”

LEN chooses that moment to act up. “Is she single, Joe?”

Barry kind of wants to die. Well, first get them to the precinct in one piece, then die. Preferably in a corner somewhere.

“Uh…” Joe squints. “Did he just…?”

“Girls named after flowers tend to be attractive,” LEN remarks. He’s right, of course, but Barry cannot help but wonder what basis LEN has for this. He’s a machine, for heaven’s sake.

“And Barry’s romantic life here seems, shall we say, nonexistent. It is my opinion that he may need a girlfriend.”

Barry takes it back. He wants to die here and now, just melt into a puddle of goo. Kick the bucket, buy the farm, croak like a frog. Joe can take the wheel and explain the sudden loss to Singh.

To his surprise, Joe begins to laugh. He laughs for a good long minute. Even LEN seems a bit taken aback.

“Woo! Ho, boy.” Joe wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. “I can see why you didn’t want to give me a ride,” he tells Barry. There’s a knowing look in his eye that Barry hesitates to read into, at least right now.

“Remind me to never get anything from Cisco. Sheesh.” Joe reaches over and taps a fingernail against the machine. “This thing reminds me of my cousin Abigail.”

Okay, even LEN isn’t _that_ bad. But Barry sees his point. Things could always be worse, and at least he’s actually getting to places on time now.

“Pardon me, Joe. Barry tells me you make excellent knock-knock jokes. I am eager to expand my humor settings, as some individuals claim they are stale.”

 _“Don’t_ say anything,” Barry warns, teeth clenched. He really needs one of those stress balls. To LEN he hisses, “Nice try, buddy.”

Joe’s still chortling when they pull up to the precinct.

 

 

 

“I want to go out west this summer,” Iris says, to no one in particular. “Maybe the Grand Canyon.”

Thanksgiving dinner is always done at Joe’s house, mainly because he is the only one with a functioning oven and an actual dining table. Cisco had joined them earlier, taking Joe and Barry up on their invitations because he claimed anywhere was better than his brother’s, but it was late and he had left a while ago. Barry’s packed away practically a whole turkey, a plate of potatoes, and all the cranberries. Presently, he is sprawled out on the couch in a massive food coma with no regrets at all.  

“Nngh,” he grunts, struggling into a more upright position, “plane tickets might be expensive.”

“I know.” Iris throws her ponytail over one shoulder. Barry cannot help but notice how pretty she is, even in her too-big sweats and new Neko Atsume socks (a gift from her co-worker, Linda). “That’s why we’d be driving.”

“We?”

Iris smiles and bites her lip. “What, you didn’t think you were invited, silly?” She pokes his leg with one sock-covered toe playfully.

“No, it’s not that, it’s just,” Barry stammers, and decides what the hell, he might as well say it. “Your car won’t make it that far.” She still drives Joe’s old Lexus, christened by Joe himself as “that damn jalopy” because the Lexus is fifteen years old and wheezes like an asthmatic hippopotamus on a good day.

Iris’s lips purse because Barry is right. “What about yours?” she says.

“My car’s, um, being annoying right now,” says Barry. Hey, it’s not exactly a lie. Iris raises a very dangerous eyebrow, so Barry backtracks. “It’ll probably be okay by the summer?”

“Great,” Iris exclaims, brightening. She counts on her fingers, “We got the car, the people, now all we need for the perfect road trip is a killer GPS and we’ll be set.”

Barry pales. Now anyone even mentions those three letters in succession and he needs to go lie down. Oh wait, he’s already lying down. Barry throws an arm over his eyes. “Iris, you don’t need a GPS. Trust me.”

“Of course I do,” says Iris, frowning. “How are we supposed to get there?”

“Whatever happened to gut instinct?”

“Barry, you have no gut instinct. You just ate half your weight in food.”

“I’m only saying, let’s go the natural way for once. No satellites, no Wi-Fi, just a good old map.”

Iris sighs and pokes Barry’s leg again. That shouldn’t do things to Barry but it does. He wonders in that moment what would happen if he just came clean with Iris: sat her down and said, “Hey Iris, I love you, I have since we were twelve,” with his best suit and a plate of her favorite brownies.

Probably nothing good. So Barry contends himself with the dream and the curves of her smile.

Iris is giving him a funny look. She finally rolls her eyes like she does when she doesn’t quite get what he’s playing at, but knows to give it up. “Fine. But when we end up somewhere in Canada, I’m blaming you,” she says.

 

 

 

“You’re making a mistake.”

“No, I really don’t think I am.”

“$34.50 for a tank of regular?”

A sigh. “Alright, humor me, Len. How is that a mistake?”

“According to my automated updates, _Mercury_ gas two blocks over is now only $2.20 a gallon.”

“Look,” Barry starts, “I appreciate the reminders to fill my tank and all, but I've been going to _STAR Fuel_ for years. I like them. And how do I even know I can trust your _updates?”_ He wiggles quotations around the word, even though he knows LEN can’t see.

“Your insults wound me, Barry. I only have your car’s best interests at heart.”

“Fine. You know what, I’m in a good mood today, I’ll bite.”

“Can I gloat once you see that I was right?”

Barry makes a U-turn in the direction of the _Mercury_ station. “Don’t you always?” he asks.

 

 

 

Singh knocks on the open door to Barry’s lab one afternoon, which either means Barry is in serious trouble, or someone has died.

“Allen. I just wanted to say good work these past few weeks.”

Barry almost drops the test tube he is holding. Singh never comes up here, and he _never_ gives compliments. “Huh?”

Singh nods once. “You’re nipping tardiness in the bud, and I like it.”

“Oh,” Barry flounders, waving his hand around before forgetting that he’s currently working with a moderately volatile compound, “yeah, I, uh, got this new thing that sort of, well, it helps with—“

Singh holds up a hand and says, “I don’t want to know, but whatever you’re doing, keep it up, Allen.”

Barry can just picture LEN snickering evilly from the depths of his car.

 

 

 

It’s a disgusting, miserable rainy day to match Barry’s disgusting, miserable rainy mood. He starts the Honda up and thumps his forehead against the steering wheel.

“I’m a fucking idiot,” he says softly, face resting against the wheel in the perfect picture of despair. His windshield wipers squeak sympathetically.

“Tell me something I don’t know, kid,” LEN says. It has taken Barry a while to get used to LEN’s sense of humor (which is more like a dry desert of extremely snarky sarcasm and puns), but he is now able to recognize when the GPS is joking. Something about the intonation changes, just like a normal person’s would.

“I’m curious,” Barry says as he grabs his seat belt, popping it into place, “if I were to talk to you about, you know, personal stuff, would you know how to respond?”

“Obviously, you underestimate my social capabilities,” LEN quips. It sounds like he is smirking (Barry still has no idea how he even _does_ that). “Lay it on me.”

“Seriously?”

“Well I’ll probably insult you a bit, but feel free to recline your seat back and talk. What’s bothering you, Barry?”

Barry clears his throat. “Women.”

“Ah. Lady troubles?”

“You could say that.” Barry breathes in deeply, then blows it out in an explosive sigh. “There’s this girl. Friend. Not _girlfriend,_ though. Iris.”

“Yes, the flower girl.”

“Anyway, Iris and I go way back. I lived with Joe for a while growing up, so we’re practically family. Except she’s in journaling on the other side of town and I don’t get to see her much.” Barry scowls. “And today, I found out she’s dating the guy in editorials.” So much for that road trip. He is not a big fan of third-wheeling.

“Let me guess,” says LEN, smug. “Sack of shit.”

“No, no,” Barry shakes his head. “That’s the problem. Eddie’s…really…nice. Model citizen, stable job, perfect teeth, the whole works. And Iris is—“something in his throat catches. “She’s happy.”

“And you’re left pining after her, spilling your guts to your Honda’s GPS while this Iris probably has no idea that you are head over heels for her,” LEN says.

“Well, since you put it that way…”

“Speaking as a piece of software, I find that being direct is a rather effective approach.” There is a pause. “Not that I care, but you could simply tell her how you feel.”

“I don’t think so. I mean, that doesn’t sound like a good idea,” Barry says, hesitant.

“Why not?” LEN questions. “I do it all the time. You, Barry Allen, are pathetic, and your intellect is only outmatched by your overwhelming cowardice. See? It feels great.”

 

 

 

The temperature outside plummets, Central City gets its first case of the flurries, and for the first time, the voice coming from LEN sounds slightly confused. “You didn’t input a destination,” he says.

“I felt like going for a drive,” Barry replies, and lets a few minutes pass in silence before he speaks again.

“Hey Len, can I ask you something?”

“It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

“Do you ever wonder where you came from?”

“I know exactly where I came from. Cisco made me.”

“So would you consider Cisco like a parent?” He turns left down a side street and sees a guy on a ladder draping Christmas lights over his home. There are two kids in fluffy down coats running around in circles on the lawn outside.

“Filial relationships hold no meaning for me.”

Barry sets his jaw. “That’s not answering the question.”

“Fine,” LEN says, resigned. “Yes, he’s my daddy. Is that what you wanted to hear, Barry?”

Barry swallows. “And if you suddenly lost Cisco, would you feel sad?”

“I know exactly where he is,” replies LEN. “Be more specific.”

Barry notices LEN never says _I don’t understand._ “Like, if he died.”

“Possibly. I know the logistics, but I would need to be programmed with a larger emotional output for any genuine reaction.”  
  
“My mom died around this time, when I was eleven,” Barry says. “Leukemia.”

“Am I supposed to be sad, or can I get back to directing you through traffic?”  
  
_I don’t expect you to be,_ Barry doesn’t say, because for once LEN is not being sarcastic. “Most humans are sad when someone dies,” he tells LEN.

“Would you be sad if I died, Barry Allen?”

The question throws Barry for a loop. “What?”

“Say my battery life runs out. Your car gets stolen. Cisco reprograms me, and I cease to exist. You just told me humans would be sad,” says LEN. “Would you?”

“Hell no,” exclaims Barry. He waves a hand and flaps his lips. “The day Cisco reprograms you, I’m jumping for joy.”

But deep down, he is not so sure anymore.

 

 

 

The Kahndaq Dynasty diamond is every thief’s wet dream. It also happens to be the leading piece in the museum’s jewel exhibit, set to showcase next Saturday. Every crook in town is going to be salivating.

They don’t even need Cisco’s tracking algorithm on this one.

Plus the idea of the algorithm, while nice in theory, doesn’t work so well in reality because Mick Rory is as unpredictable as he is hammy. They get the place right, but the time wrong. Ergo, Barry is meeting with the security detail at the museum on Wednesday when Heatwave himself strolls in through the front door with a loud, “Let’s turn up the HEAT in here!”

If Barry lives through this he is going to kill whoever’s bright idea it was to send forensics in on bio scanners. Then again, this could have easily been Cisco. Barry shudders. He’s got no backup and his greatest weapon is a clicky pen he nicked from Joe’s desk the other day.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Rory is like the living personification of ‘roid rage, only with the added bonus of a flamethrower. Barry knew jerks like him in school. Total beefcakes. Mean left hooks.

…which he is reminded of—vividly—when Heatwave decides to take out everyone in the room. Not with his flamethrower, but old-school. Just for kicks (literally). Barry takes the beating with little fight, because he can’t think of a better option.

Strangely, the only thought in his head is if he can just make it to his car.

Eventually he does, but not before Rory tears him a new one and makes off with the diamond. Barry’s good jacket is smoking (what the hell, Rory wasn’t even using his flamethrower) and there is an appalling amount of blood from his nose caking the front of his shirt. His wrist is definitely sprained and as he moves, something pulls in his chest that might be broken ribs.

He practically crawls to his Honda and collapses against the driver’s seat. Fresh blood drips onto the upholstery. Dimly, Barry notes that is going to be a _bitch_ to clean and he brays a hysterical laugh. Ow. With his remaining strength Barry turns the car on.

“Hello, Barry.”

On any other day Barry would have groaned at that voice. Today, it brings an odd sense of relief.

He coughs. “Hey, Len.”

“My sensors are detecting bodily fluids on your car’s interior. Everything alright, kid?”

Barry splutters another laugh, despite the pain in his ribs. “Not really.”

“You need medical attention?”

“I just need to get home, then I’ll be alright,” Barry moans, panting, as he tries to prop himself up on the seat. He hisses through his teeth as his sprained wrist gives an almighty, grinding throb.

“Your seat belt isn’t buckled,” LEN comments.

Barry thinks of the way he’d have to twist to manage that one. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“Care to tell me what is happening?” If Barry did not know any better he would say LEN sounds concerned. Interesting.

“Heatwave came to the museum a few days early,” explains Barry. He lets his eyes close. “We were his punching bags.”

LEN is silent for a moment. “Central City General or Saint Andrews?” he asks.

Barry’s eyes crack open. “I don’t need a hospital, Len,” he says.

“You can’t even drive, Barry. Which one?”

“Don’t play around, neither can you.”

If LEN were human Barry thinks he would have laughed. “That’s because you never let me. And are you kidding?” says LEN, humored. “This whole city is my playground.”

“Fine.” Barry slumps in his seat, suddenly dead tired. And hungry. “Saint Andrews. Doctor Snow is there.” Oh, she is going to have a fucking field day when she sees this.

The car shifts into drive and takes off. Barry lets the steady motion relax him, or as much as he can relax in a situation like this. It should really bother him that his GPS is literally _driving his car._ Actually, it’s sort of a good thing. Explaining this to Joe tonight would require the kind of energy that Barry simply does not have.

He shivers, uncharacteristically cold. Moving hurts, so despite his best efforts he cannot reach the heat. Barry sighs.

As if on cue, a little red button turns on and warm air fills up the car.

 

 

 

Eventually, they catch Rory. Cisco figures out how to neutralize the oxidant in Rory’s flamethrower, and after that it is just a question of who has the better punch lines.

With two cracked ribs, a sprained wrist, and a fractured jaw, Barry is put on a week of bed rest. He stays at Joe’s, because in all honesty Iris makes the best tomato soup. After seeing the shape Barry’s in Iris finally agrees to drop the Heatwave story and stick to the saner criminals out there (she’s already got her eyes on the Santinis, which has Joe’s blood pressure doing the Macarena).

And yeah, maybe he’s just the tiniest bit smug that Iris is taking an evening or two away from Mister Pearly-Whites Eddie Thawne to make him soup. It’s nice. Barry spends the first days of December on the couch with an Isaac Asimov book, thoroughly enjoying his break from soggy sub sandwiches.

He doesn’t drive.

“Well, bright side is, you don’t have to listen to that annoying GPS for a while,” Joe says, chuckling.

“Yeah,” Barry says, putting on a relieved face.

The quiet is nice, he’ll give it that, but there is something missing. Barry mulls on it for a bit, hesitant to say it’s LEN, because LEN’s a dick. But LEN has been the most entertaining dick Barry has had in a while—and that’s coming from a fairly heterosexual point of view.

It’s true, he’ll admit it. He actually misses the stupid thing.

 

 

 

Barry’s first day back at the precinct almost ends with him in the hospital again on the account of Cisco barreling into him and wrapping him in a massive bear hug.

“I missed you, man, you have no idea,” Cisco says, voice muffled by Barry’s cardigan. “People here are so boring, and I stress-eat when I have nobody to science with.”

“Missed you too,” says Barry, and winces as his ribs give a twinge. “Um, Cisco. Could you…?”

“Oh, right! Sorry.” Cisco lets go, his smile wide. “As an official welcome back, I have a surprise for you.” He beckons.

Barry follows Cisco into his office, though Barry uses the word “office” here in the loosest sense. He’s found that if you look at it for too long you’d get the overwhelming urge to call a janitor, so he parks himself on a stool and stares at Cisco’s worktable. A screwdriver with a dollop of something greenish caked over it stares back ominously.

“I finally figured it out,” Cisco is saying, pushing spavined pencils and bolts aside as he rummages through a metal box on his table. “Turns out there was a glitch with the programming software when I was first designing it, which turned into a whole configuration malfunction that made—“

“Cisco, slow down,” says Barry. “What are you talking about?”

Cisco finds what he is looking for: a tiny golden chip, which he hands to Barry. “Deactivating LEN,” he explains.

Barry stares at the chip in his palm. “You mean this will get rid of him?”

“Faster than the last doggy treat in a room full of Corgis,” Cisco says. “Just stick that into the memory slot on the side, and it’ll rewrite the entire interface.”

“Is it another AI?”

“Nope. Just your standard, robotized British lady. Hacked it from Garmin, with a few added phrases.”

Added phrases, hah. Barry’s heard that one before. “No pantywaists this time, right?” he inquires, holding the chip up to eye level. “I don’t know why you even taught that word to LEN. He uses it all the time.” His eyes roll. “Mostly in reference to me.”

“No pantywaists, petticoats, or short pants,” Cisco affirms. He gestures to the chip. “She’s got all the same features as LEN, only she’s not responsive. You’ll have a much better time with her. I was thinking of naming her something quaint. Like Sally. Or Patricia.”

As Cisco rambles on happily, Barry turns the chip over in his fingers. He should be excited about this. No more insults, no more jibes at his love life, no more pretentious puns.

“Sorry, but I can’t take this, Cisco.”

“—only my mom had a friend who was named that and she—“Cisco freezes, eyes narrowing. “Why not?”

Barry hands the chip back to Cisco. “You’ve done so much for me, and this is really great and all,” he says. He reaches up and scratches the back of his head. “But as crazy as this sounds, LEN’s kind of growing on me.”

Cisco’s eyebrows shoot up into his hair. “Seriously?”

“He’s a giant ass most of the time,” Barry admits, “you were right about that. He’s got character, though, and it’s actually been kind of fun driving the past month.”

“Wow. I never thought I’d see the day,” Cisco marvels. “Just out of curiosity, how’d you get him to shut up?”

“Played it cool,” says Barry, shrugging.

“Now _that_ takes some serious skill.”

Barry shakes his head. “Says the guy who created a high functioning, self-aware AI in the CCPD’s basement.”

“Hey man, it’s all about perspective.”

“Thank you, Cisco,” Barry says. “Really.”

“No prob. Let me know if LEN ever needs any upgrades down the road.” Cisco reaches into his drawer and pulls out a packet of red Twizzlers. He claims they help his thought process, but Barry suspects Cisco really just has a giant sweet tooth.

Cisco opens the packet, sticks a twist between his molars, and yanks off a piece. “So,” he says, chewing, “has he met Iris yet?”

 

 

 

Barry unlocks his car with his left hand (the right one’s still sore) and lays his briefcase on the seat beside him.

It’s his first day driving himself to work since the Rory incident. His clock reads ten minutes to nine. Whereas most people would be rushing at this point, Barry simply slides behind the wheel and buckles up.

Things are looking good. He may still have bruises, a one-sided love for his childhood friend, too many olives in his sub-par sandwiches, and a faulty GPS on his dashboard. But he is hopeful.

In fact, he finds that he is smiling as he turns the key in the ignition. The car comes to life, and the GPS screen lights up.

“Hey, Len,” Barry says. “I’ve been away, but I’m back now. Let’s go to work.”

“Hello, Barry,” says LEN.

 

 

_End._

 


End file.
